Under a Warrior's Moon

by C. L. Scheel

  "The fourth: that you have willfully conspired and consorted with our enemy, those who are known as members of the Covenant of White Sisters, their agents and minions, in an attempt of subversion to Our Will."

  "The fifth: that you did will fully conspire with our servant and loyal Prince Dahka, Sovereign of Maretstan, into traitorous activities and a deliberate attack upon Riehl in order to further the illegal gain of Riehlian lands and your own seditious purposes."

  "We find you guilty of the above and commit you to punishment for such crimes."

  The scribe paused, having finished the complaint, his hands still trembled holding the brittle paper. Assur raised his hand to dismiss the scribe.

  "You may speak," he said, never taking his eyes from Kazan's face.

  "I have nothing to say," Kazan spat out. "Butcher me now, barbarian, but mark me, there are others who desire your downfall. For too long you have ground us under your heel. There will be others after me who will demand justice and freedom from your heavy yoke!"

  A deathly silence filled the hall; no one dared move or speak. All looked at each other with astonishment.

  Unperturbed, Assur stared down at Kazan, stroking his jaw.

  "A heavy yoke? Tell me, Kazan, when in the last three hundred sunturns have you felt the sting of the lash, or the burden of tribute? Have you suffered under the oppression by my sword? By Verlian's blood, you have suffered more from the hands of the Wrathmen than from me." Assur stood up, his face darkening with anger. "The issue is your guilt. Five counts of treason stand over your head and you dare accuse me oppression!"

  Assur turned his back to the kneeling Kazan, folded his arms across his chest and looked down as if to reconsider his thoughts. Another long silence filled the hall--scarcely a soul took a breath as they awaited his next words. Assur slowly turned to face his silent subjects.

  "I came to the Eastern Lands to see for myself what mischief has been brewing and I nearly came too late--it is my own folly that I intend to remedy. But what I have seen has shown me Kazan dar Baen is not fit to rule. I have seen oppression and hunger; fear and want. Whose yoke do your people bear, Kazan?"

  Silence.

  "Do you deny any of the charges set against you?"

  "No, lord."

  D'Assuriel sat down again and studied his defiant subject. "Before I pass judgment on you Kazan, I will say two things. First, you have been given the most difficult task demanded of one man: to rule. But it does not excuse your abuse of that power."

  "Secondly, I will acknowledge my neglect of the Eastern Provinces and will move as quickly as is possible to remedy the situation, but I will not tolerate disobedience to my Will. The peace will be kept."

  Assur lifted the spear and pointed it down toward Kazan.

  "Kazan dar Baen, Prince of Gorendt, I find you guilty of treason on all counts. The punishment for treason is death and I sentence you to be beheaded and your body to be hung from the battlements of Riehl, but first you will taste your own cruelties."

  He signaled sharply to the attending warriors to strip Kazan and hold him face down to the floor. Assur took up the whip-like redreed, the one young Lostic had carefully cut from the nearby banks of the Sherehn, and stood over the prostrate form of Kazan.

  "Princess Kitarisa is not here to see her own vengeance, but I am, and the others who were witness to your cruelty against her. No one in all of this Dominion has the right to punish you, save for me. You will be punished Kazan, for your crimes against her."

  Assur brought the redreed down with all his strength on Kazan's back. The defiant prince jerked against the reed's excruciating pain, but did not make a sound. Again, Assur brought the reed down, cutting into the soft flesh.

  By the tenth stroke, Kazan's began to moan. Horrified, women of the Riehlian court turned their faces from the brutal scene, but no one dared to leave.

  At the fifteenth stroke, Kazan broke. Alternately howling and whimpering, the traitorous lord writhed on the cold stone tiles of the great hall.

  "I'll see you rot!" Kazan flared, still unrepentant.

  "Silence!" Assur roared. Again the reed came down and Kazan screamed. By the twentieth stroke, Gorendt's prince was pleading for his life.

  "Mercy, Great Lord! I beg you!"

  Assur stepped back, breathing hard from his exertions.

  "Take him to the cells below, to wait for his punishment. No one is to attend to him and he is to have no water."

  He jerked his hand toward the warriors standing over Kazan and without further instruction, they yanked Kazan to his feet and dragged him stumbling and bleeding from the hall.

  "Bring those two to me." He indicated Alor and Alea.

  Alor tried to make a brave show like his father, but ultimately collapsed before the dais, thoroughly defeated. Alea could only weep.

  "I do not believe either of you have the character of your father; you have merely been his tools, however ill-used. I'll make this brief. Prince Alor, I do not think you would be foolish enough to try to avenge your father, but I will take no chances. You are hereby stripped of your rank, titles and lands. Your are to leave Gorendt and never return."

  Alor's mouth fell open, too astonished to speak.

  "And you," Assur turned his attention to Alea, "the same will be for you. As of this moment, you have no title, rank, lands or honors. I will see that you are married, comfortably, but in the meantime, you will get yourself to the mountain sanctuary of the Holy Daughters where you will learn some manners and humility."

  "My lord," Alea shrieked, but it was too late. Assur had dismissed them, clearly irritated with having to deal with either of them.

  He turned to face the assembled court, his expression still hard and unforgiving from his dealings with Kazan.

  "I will warn all of you but once and let this message be heard from the northern lands of the Qualani, south to the Sea of the Volt and beyond to the Barren: my peace will be kept, my Will obeyed."

  He offered Mar'Kess a slight bow of his head. "The Falcon Throne is yours Governor Mar'Kess. Lead your people as wisely as I have seen you lead your warriors in the field."

  With that, Assur took up the great spear in his left hand. In one sharp motion, he flung the bloody redreed to the tiles and without looking at his warriors or any of his is silent subjects, swept out of Falcon Hall with long, purposeful strides.

  Chapter 23

  CAPTAIN SYUNN WAS running for his life and for the first time he would know the true meaning of fear.

  For two days, Assur and the faithful Kuurus had been relentlessly tracking him. Refreshed and fit, Adzra pounded along the open plain that followed the eastern shores of the Sherehn, eager to find his master's prey.

  Syunn had tried to be clever. He crossed and re-crossed the Sherehn several times, hoping to throw them off but the captain was tiring and began to make mistakes. Remains of hastily eaten food had been carelessly tossed along the way; fresh horse droppings betrayed his trail and the most telling sign was a horseshoe--a sure indication that he was not far ahead and his tired horse was lame.

  "How will you end him, my lord?" Kuurus asked, keeping his own eager horse in line with the big gray.

  "Quickly. I am weary of battles and blood."

  "The Goddess will not Summon him if you take his head."

  "A Wrathman would never be Summoned, no matter how he was to die. I do not care, Kuurus. Syunn will die by my hand and I will be done with it."

  At dusk, they rounded a large outcropping of boulders and spotted the luckless Wrathman in the distance, trying to urge more speed out of an exhausted, lame horse.

  Assur tugged the black shirka cloth over his mouth and nose, and spurred Adzra into a gallop.

  "You are not to interfere, Kuurus, but only to witness," he ordered sharply.

  The captain had heard the rattle of hoof beats approaching him from behind and kicked at his own horse. The wretched beast struggled into stumbling gallop--a pitiful effort that enraged the desperate Wrath
man. He beat the animal with the flat of his sword, but the effort was too late.

  In relentless strides, Assur's horse descended upon him. Syunn's last vision was that of the Ter-Rey standing in his stirrups, sword overhead and death glittering in his black-marked eyes.

  The long sword hissed through the wane light and found its mark. The impact sent the headless Wrathman and his horse toppling into the dust.

  Assur wheeled Adzra around without so much as a glance at the dead captain.

  "A brave stroke, cleanly done, my lord. A worthy blow for a warrior," Kuurus said in praising tones.

  Assur refitted the blade into the scabbard on his back and then jerked the shirka cloth away from his face.

  "I am a savage," he said bitterly.

  The ride back to Riehl took only one day, much faster than the time it took to hunt for Syunn and as they entered the last gates to the inner courtyard it was nearly dark. Torches flared brightly from the high walls and gates.

  Heartsick and weary, Assur handed the reins of his tired horse to the nearest servant and climbed the steps to the keep with a heavy tread.

  Mar'Kess awaited him at the top, smiling and beaming at him. The new Prime Governor had taken well to his new role. Clad in a fresh surcoat of gleaming white and blue, the falcon emblem emblazoned across his chest, he looked every inch the ruler of his province.

  "You were successful, my lord?"

  "Yes. Bring me something to eat," Assur ordered, brushing past Mar'Kess. He shoved his gauntlets at another attending servant and then stopped to remove his swords.

  "Of course, my lord, but first you must greet our new guests," Mar'Kess went on, unperturbed by Assur's rude manner.

  "I am in no mood for guests, Mar'Kess. I want food, a bath and sleep. Tomorrow we will begin the plans for our return to Daeamon Keep."

  "I am certain you will want to meet these guests--they are quite influential," Mar'Kess said, still grinning.

  Assur stopped and scowled, thoroughly irritated by Mar'Kess foolish-looking expression.

  "Who are these `guests?'" he demanded.

  "People of great importance," Mar'Kess said, almost laughing.

  From behind Mar'Kess, Assur saw several others grinning and looking equally as foolish.

  "No."

  "Yes, my lord, you will."

  Boldly, Mar'Kess took his elbow and steered him firmly down the corridor, past more smiling Riehlians and beaming Talesian warriors, into the Falcon Hall.

  Assur angrily snatched his arm away from him. "You overstep yourself, Mar'Kess! I am in no mood for--!"

  "Assur?" the soft, pleading voice called to him, shattering his anger.

  He blinked and squinted into the gloom of the great hall.

  She was pale and thin from her ordeal and her left arm was wrapped in thick bandaging from elbow to her fingertips, but she was alive and well.

  Directly behind her stood Thespa and three of the Daughters, regal in their dark-red robes.

  "Kita?" he breathed, scarcely believing his eyes. She nodded and smiled at him.

  Without realizing what he was doing, he shoved his swords into Mar'Kess' hands and in two strides was across the floor, pulling Kitarisa into his arms.

  "Gently, my lord," he heard Thespa caution. "She is still weak and her arm..." her voice trailed off, knowing her words were falling on deaf ears.

  Assur tasted Kitarisa's tears as he pressed a long, possessive kiss on her soft mouth and then pulled her even closer to him, almost lifting her off her feet.

  "Assur, your men," Kita murmured against him, but he didn't hear her.

  Her toes left the floor as he swung her around him in a joyful, dizzying circle.

  "I will take you home, Kita," he said, smiling, pressing his lips to her ear.

  She certainly did not hear him either over the pounding spears and raucous, happy chanting:

  "Ter-Rey-A! Ter-Rey-A! Ter-Rey-A!"

  ~*~

  C.L. Scheel

  "My sixth grade teacher encouraged me to write, but an opera star inspires me to persist, to stay with it."

  Like most authors, writing has been a part of Christine's life for as long as she can remember. "If it is in your heart, there is no way you can ignore it or stop it."

  Under A Warrior's Moon is her first published work in the science fiction/fantasy genre, and she has plans for two sequels. Having penned several works in other genres, Christine also intends to expand into the paranormal and eventually mainstream.

  Born in Portland, Oregon, but raised and educated in the Pacific Northwest, Christine finally settled in Reno, Nevada and resides there with her family, a fluffy red chow-chow, and recently, an elegant, stuck-up black cat. Her interests range from horses to ballet; mountain hiking to opera. However, books and writing are closest to her heart.